City of Death: The 63rd Hunger Games
by JuniperByTheSea
Summary: Twenty-four contestants. One battle royale. A game to die for...


**Blanket Disclaimer for this entire fic:** The Hunger Games universe belongs to Suzanne Collins & co., not me. Why do you think it's called FANfiction?

**Claimer:** All new OC characters and plot are mine.

**A/N:** Since this is just me having fun, we'll see how long it lasts. As the character introductions and general lead-in to the games tends to bore me, I changed up the traditional format: for each of the twelve days preceding the Games, one district pair will be introduced. This means no prolonged prologues! Hooray!

* * *

**District One Female Tribute, Calaveras Coss**

I swing myself up and over the uneven bars, pushing myself into a handstand for a moment. But I'm no match for gravity, and I only linger there for a moment before falling.

My momentum boosts me back up so that I am once again at the top of the bars. I push myself into a handstand again. Instead of holding my position, this time I let go of the bar with my left hand and spin on my right, doing a full two-and-a-half turns. On my second upswing, I jerk the bar sharply towards me, releasing it immediately after, so that I fly over it. At the last second, before it's too late and I fall, I grab hold of the bar once again, catching myself.

Upswing. Push-up to full split. Downswing. Fly to low bar. Two folded rotations, a handstand between each. Downswing, release to high bar. Catch. Push-up to handstand. Downswing, jerk and release. Catch, release. Mid-air flip. Catch. Push-up to handstand, rotate three times.

I don't complete my three rotations, and I know that as I am falling, only my left hand clutching the bar, that I will not be able to regain my grip. My dismount, though forced, is elegant for what it is: a somersault to stick. I land cleanly on my feet, perfectly balanced, and I hold my arms up for Plush, my gymnastics tutor, indicating that my practice is done.

"Beautiful lines!" claps Plush, mostly pleased with my work. There is a glint in her eyes that says she has something more to say. I try not to grimace. "Beautiful. But what happened to your last turns? You're supposed to do three, not two-and-a-half-and-fall."

"Gravity," I say dryly. The three vertical turns are the hardest part of my practice routine. To be honest, I really don't think that they have any real value. I'm never going to have to perform a perfect gymnastics routine in the arena–all I really need is to be able to fly from tree to tree without falling.

Last year, the arena was a swamp, with only thick trees as solid land and jungle vines to swing from. Alligators, crocodiles and other gross-nasties proliferated below, just waiting for one of the tributes to become dinner. The games were fairly short, as most of the non-careers fell off their tree trunks as soon as the gong rang.

"Well, then," Plush narrows her eyebrows at me. I think that she might make me do my routine over, and I sigh inwardly.

Don't get me wrong–I love gymnastics. It's amazing to feel your body arcing through the air, to twist and spin in mid-air, flying from bar to bar. But the bars are especially tiring, since my arms and abs are doing most of the work.

"Balance beam?" I suggest to Plush hopefully. The balance beam is more difficult than the bars, but much less tiring. I'm on my feet then, relying less on my arms. "Or maybe we wrap up for today."

"But today's the last day before the reaping!" exclaims Plush. "I can't have you volunteering without squeezing in every bit of training that you can, Calaveras."

That's the other thing. I want to squeeze in every bit of training I can–I want to head over to close-quarters combat now. Long-range weapons, namely throwing stars and knives, are my specialty, but my close-quarters isn't as good as I'd like it to be. While I can best an untrained tribute, I couldn't win against another Career.

But I can't tell Plush that I want to head over to another station in our private club. I tried to once, and she got so offended that she burst into tears. Still, I can't just do gymnastics. Being flexible and fast isn't going to get me very far if I can't fight, too.

"Plush, I want to spend some time with my family too," I explain carefully. "If anything bad happens, I want to have squeezed in as much time with them, too." Lies. I could care less about what they thought. "Please?"

Plush considers my words for a moment. I can almost see the gears in her head going. "If you must," she finally sighs. But the glimmer has not left her eyes. "I wish you'd just take one quick go on the vault, though."

Of course. It's just typical Plush to try and work me till I drop. "Sure," I say. It's not worth a fight.

I walk over to the end of the vault's runway, turning deliberately at the end to face it.

_Three. Two. One._

As soon as my countdown finishes, I'm off like a shot, running for all I'm worth at the vault. Two strides before I hit the spring board, I do a front handspring so that I land on the board on my feet, with as much force as I can muster. Then my hands are on the vault, pushing off and tossing my body into the air. I hold my arms in and my spine straight, twisting once, twice, three times before landing. Slightly off balance, I wobble for a bit, but I manage to keep my feet in one place.

Plush claps as I raise my arms.

"Very nice!" she praises.

I bow. Plush sighs and wipes at her eyes, pretending to be sad.

"I wish you luck, Calaveras," she says.

"Thank you, Plush," I respond. "It's been an honor. I won't forget all you've done for me." It's true, I won't.

"Of course," Plush says. I can hear a slight pitchiness to her voice, and I can tell that she wants to start crying at the thought of my death. Maybe she's not pretending, but I don't want to be present for any waterworks. I quickly wave goodbye and sprint out of the room before she can start.

Dashing down the hall to close-quarters takes no time at all, and before I know it, I'm sparring with the instructor, Titanium. He is not holding back, and I am getting as good as I give. By the end of my lesson, I am sufficiently battered. But I am still satisfied, having disarmed Titanium four times, despite his "killing" me thrice.

"Good work," he growls at me on my way out. "You'll do just fine in there, Calaveras."

"Thank you," I reply. It's all I can do. To be honest, it's just about killing me, the way everyone's wishing me luck. I don't resent the sentiment, only it's delivery. Most of my well-wishers insist on using a tone only appropriate at funerals. When they say "good luck," I feel as if they are really saying "I'm sorry for your loss."

But who are they to judge me? While District One hasn't had a winner in a good decade, at least one of us has always made it to the top five. I will end this losing streak, and come home champion.

There is no alternative in my mind. I have trained for this all my life. I, Calaveras Coss, will be the winner of the Sixty-Third Hunger Games.

* * *

**District One Male Tribute, Rubeus Nire**

Unlike most Careers, my family is dirt poor. Literally. We live in a tiny, decrepit building on the outskirts of town, right next to the place where the companies dump the extra dirt from their excavated mines.

District One might be known for its jewels and wealth, but that's only the inner city families. What they don't show is the comparative poverty right next door.

I suppose that we're better off than most other poor families in other districts, especially in the lower-down ones. We're not starving, and our income is fairly steady and decent. But the cost of living here, in District One, is so much higher than elsewhere. So like I said, we're not starving. But we're not eating like kings, either. On average, our meals consist of the tessera grain bread, with the cheap canned sardines from our corner store.

At least, because I'm a Career, I can take out loads of tessera without fearing repercussions. My endgoal's to enter in the games anyway, isn't it?

Today, like every other day, I head to the mines first thing. I don't actually work in them–my father does, while my mom is a jewelcutter. It's romantic, in a way, if you think about it. He finds the gems, brings them back to her, and she cuts them. Of course, we don't make much. Usually, the gems are quite small, and since finding a jewel is no certain thing, they've both contracted with one of the big jewelry companies for a steady, if low, salary. But because they both work, I can spend my free time training.

Behind the mines is all the junky machinery–it's a graveyard for old, used-up mining equipment. A District Three engineer would have a field day back there, but since I'm no scientist, I use it as an training gym. An old drill serves as something of a climbing wall, a wrecking ball as a punching bag and sparring partner. Lifting debris is my weight training, and running through the various piles of crap works well as an obstacle course.

Thanks to my years of training like this, I have shaped my body into a hard tool. I can run for five hours straight, maintaining a five or six mile-per-hour speed. In the beginning, when I could barely flip my thin mattress (which needs to be flipped once a week, lest it be entirely flattened), I can now lift mine carts with impunity. This is what will win me sponsors in the games.

There's really no alternative for me but to volunteer. I may not be as well-fed as some of the other careers, or as professionally trained, but I don't need polished skills. I need survival skills. And I have those in abundance.

More than once, I have cut myself on this rusty equipment. Tetanus is not uncommon here in the outskirts of District One, and I've seen the nasty effects lockjaw has on people. It's got to be one of the worst ways to go. And yet, I've kept it out of my system, effectively disinfecting, cleaning and binding wounds. I've set my own broken bones. Last month, I lived for a full three weeks in preparation for the games, toughing out the elements. I can skin my own rabbits and make my own fires. I can live with cold and hunger.

But despite all this training for being cold and hungry, I still hate being cold and hungry. Who doesn't? And even more than I hate being cold and hungry, I hate seeing my parents cold and hungry.

Every day I wake up and see our roof that seems, little by little, caving in on us. I see the shabby bathroom with its broken tiles and blackened grout, the poorly equipped kitchen with its sad little gas stove that won't light on its own any more, the permanently dirty linoleum that won't turn back to white no matter how long we scrub at it. I can't live here for much longer. I won't have my parents staying in this dangerous place where the roof could fall in on our heads at any moment. I can't continue to take the fruits of their labor without giving back.

I am their only child, and all their hopes are pinned on me. So you see, I've got to win the games. I have to get us out of this hovel that we live in. Into Victor's Village, living on a large pension. It would be a place where my mother could spend her days designing jewelry for herself instead of others, a place where my father could spend his days reading leisurely and gardening. I could even bring Iridi, my only friend, in to live with us.

I am at the peak of my physical condition now, in this moment of youth. I am strong enough, fast enough, tough enough to do this.

I know what tomorrow holds: my victory.

_Question of the Day:_ What do you think of District One this year?


End file.
